


Footsteps

by TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Rupert Graves Birthday Auction 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-28 21:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15058406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy/pseuds/TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy
Summary: For n_a, who has won my story in the Rupert Graves Birthday Auction 2018!They provided me with a lovely prompt, and this is what I made of it. I very much hope you enjoy your story, and thank you again for donating! It's much appreciated! :)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [n_a](https://archiveofourown.org/users/n_a/gifts).



> For n_a, who has won my story in the Rupert Graves Birthday Auction 2018! 
> 
> They provided me with a lovely prompt, and this is what I made of it. I very much hope you enjoy your story, and thank you again for donating! It's much appreciated! :)

Steps. Steps in the darkness. Creaking wood. They’re outside the door. Again. Hadn’t they just left? It seemed like only seconds ago. The steps grow louder.

Mycroft wraps the blanket closer around his shoulders, buries himself in the mountain of pillows he has stacked around him. The wall supports his head, here in the corner, where it’s safe. Safe for now. The steps are coming closer, ever closer. They never arrive. But they’re always there, in the darkness. Lurking. Waiting for a wrong move.

He can’t sleep. Hasn’t slept for three days, only briefly passed out once, on the second night. No rest had come from it, only terror when he woke up and realised. His throat is parched, but he doesn’t dare leave his spot - the one spot in this whole house he feels slightly safe in. He can’t move. Not in the darkness. That’s how they get you. You turn your back, you make a wrong move, a noise. No, he has to wait until the sun returns. It’s his luck that it’s summer, so he’ll only have to wait another hour, at most.

He draws the blanket over his head again, buries his face in a pillow that he’s gripped so tightly he wonders how it’s still in one piece. Except for the shivers that course through his body every few minutes, Mycroft is sitting perfectly still, making himself as small and invisible as possible. Here, behind the wardrobe, hidden by the heavy curtain, behind the pillows and under the blanket, he feels at least a tiny bit at peace with himself.

Then he remembers and can barely suppress the sob that threatens to escape his throat. No noise. No weakness. He scolds himself and cries quietly into the fabric, pressing himself as close to the wall as he possibly can.

As he finally manages to control himself, he listens for the footsteps. They’re gone, for now. He sees a cautious light shining on the velvet red curtain from the outside. The sun is rising, ever so slowly. When the rays touch the fabric, he will dare to look beyond his corner, maybe even try to visit the bathroom. The door is still locked. He hadn’t heard it open. But what if he missed it? With shaking hands he draws back the curtain and peeks into the room - his own bedroom. It’s empty. The door is closed, key still in the lock.

It takes another ten minutes until Mycroft dares to stand up. He crawls out of his corner, into the golden rays of the morning sun. It does nothing to lift his mood. They are but a temporary reprieve from the terror that lurks in the dark. Night will come again. Night always comes.

He walks slowly, defeated into his bathroom. Only the most necessary ablutions, then drinking two glasses of water quickly. There are mirrors here, too many reflective surfaces. He doesn’t want to see himself. His rational mind knows exactly what’s going on. It’s like a second version of himself, standing outside of his body, mocking him for every cowardly reaction. He knows that he’s alone in his house. He knows that his security here is the best - that it has even been raised to a higher level after the… incident.

He knows. But still. In the darkness the footsteps return. And the terror takes hold.

Mycroft hates himself. He’s weak. He can’t perform his job. The most important job in the country. The most brilliant mind in the world crippled by senseless fear. By emotions. By a feeling that chokes him and leaves him unable to think. He balls in hands into fists with such force his fingernails almost break his own skin. He wants to hit himself for being so weak. But he knows it won’t make a difference. He’s tried.

He’d been advised to take the week off after everything that happened. Maybe it would’ve been better had he stayed and continued to work. The solitude is killing him. Him, the iceman, the one who’s most comfortable with only himself. They’ve taken that from him. They have tainted his refuge, the one place he feels at home: his own mind. Mycroft wonders long until Anthea will take to contact him. He’s left his phone downstairs, in his study, hasn’t looked at it since he returned home three days ago. Hasn’t talked to anyone, much less wanted to.

No one should be allowed to see him like this. Broken, humiliated, weak. Everything he was is gone. Mycroft suddenly realises he’s been standing in the middle of his bedroom for the last half hour. He shakes his head. How will he retrieve what’s gone forever?

As the doorbell rings, he’s so surprised that he jumps. His first instinct is to hide, but he wills himself to stay, at least, in place. The doorbell is a completely normal sound, Mycroft reminds himself, and the only curious thing about it is who might be visiting him - not only at this time of day, but at all. He’s not used to receiving visitors here, no matter his state. With the daylight, some of his demons retreat into the shadows, but they’re still there, at the corner of his vision, mocking him. He draws himself up to his full height and faces a mirror after all. There is one next to his wardrobe. 

With caution he eyes the man staring back at him, and almost doesn't recognise himself. His eyes are bloodshot, the skin deathly pale. The rings under his eyes are deep and black, the hair hangs loose, lacking any form or shine. No, he won’t face anyone like this. Out of the question. But he still wonders who it could be.

Curiosity takes hold of him as the doorbell rings again. After hesitating for a few seconds, he unlocks the bedroom door and pushes it open, only slightly, waiting for something to happen. Nothing does - of course - but Mycroft still feels uneasy stepping into the corridor. The sun hasn’t reached the windows here yet and the darkness is more pronounced, if not complete anymore. Mycroft reaches for the light switch. Artificial light is only a flimsy barrier, but it helps.

The screen connected to the door is next to the stairs. He switches on the camera and is faced with the most peculiar sight. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade is in front of his door, looking nervous and slightly out of breath. His car is standing further back, Mycroft can barely see it. He checks the time. 6:21am. Greg seems to do the same, typing on his phone. The landline rings. Persistent, Mycroft thinks and for the first time in what feels like months, a semblance of a smile graces his lips. No. He has to send him away. He won’t be seen like this. By anyone.

Mycroft clears his throat. He hasn't spoken in days. Hopes it won’t show. With shaky fingers he presses the button for the speaker.

“Inspector Lestrade, good morning.”

“Oh my god, Mycroft. You’re there.”

“You sound surprised,” Mycroft says. It’s an obvious observation. Lestrade looks momentarily overjoyed like he’s just won the lottery. “Why shouldn’t I be? It’s my house.”

Haughty sarcasm had always been the easiest way for him to deflect. He puts people off on purpose, and it works. Usually.

“Yes, yes, of course. I… Look, can you let me in?”

“Whatever for?”

Lestrade cards the fingers of his right hand through his silver hair. This side of the house is still in shadow, yet it seems to shine.

“I know it sounds weird, but I need to see you.”

“Why?”

“I can explain better when we’re face to face.”

“You can explain yourself now, or leave,” Mycroft says with emphasis.

Lestrade sighs and looks back to his phone. Mycroft is glad that his door system allows for a one-way camera transmission. There’s no need for the inspector to see his dead face. Lestrade searches for something on his phone, then looks up again.

“You can see me, right?”

“Right.”

“Then here.”

He holds up the phone, so that Mycroft can see the screen. It’s a single message, unknown sender. ‘Find Mycroft before he’s lost.’ Mycroft reads it again and again. His eyes fill with tears. Oh, brother. Even when you’re dead you can’t help but meddle in my affairs.

“It’s from Sherlock, isn’t it?” Lestrade asks, his voice slightly broken.

“I can neither confirm nor deny that,” Mycroft replies, his voice heavy with tears.

“Mycroft, are you crying? Please, let me in. I don’t know what’s going on, but if the message really is from Sherlock, if he really is alive, he wouldn’t break his cover just for anything. He cares about you… and so do I. Please.”

Mycroft feels completely at a loss, which is still new for him, but not the first time it has happened during the last days. There is no ground under his feet and no air in his lungs. His head swims. In what is a sheer act of desperation he manages to push the button to admit Lestrade into the house and turns tail immediately, retreating into his bedroom posthaste. Seconds later he’s back in his corner, under the blanket, shaking with all the implications and realities of the situation. Then he remembers that he’s forgotten to lock his door. But it’s too late.

“Mycroft?” he hears Lestrade’s voice, sounding more natural now that it’s not distorted by the speaker. He isn’t sure he wants to answer, so he keeps quiet.

There are footsteps outside. He knows they’re Lestrade’s, but he can’t help but flinch with every noise he hears. As the door opens his heart almost stops. His head is waging war with his feelings, which take over and send him into a panicked state, which only worsens with every step that draws nearer, nearer, nearer…

Lestrade pulls away the curtain and they stare into each other’s eyes for what feels like a small eternity. There is recognition, but it doesn’t help. Mycroft is in the corner, Lestrade is looming over him. His shadow blocks out the sun. Mycroft can’t breathe. Tears start to flow without warning, his body stiffens, drawing the protective blanket closer. As Lestrade makes a move, he kicks instinctively, hitting the other man in the shin.

“Fuck off!” Mycroft yells, panicked, too loud for his own ears. “Leave me alone!”

Lestrade seems too shocked to react, so he just jumps back, cringing from the pain in his leg. Mycroft wants to say sorry, but the words don’t come. He’s hurt the man. He didn’t want to. Oh god, what will he do? Will he be angry? Oh please, don’t let him be angry. Lestrade looks up and swallows. He extends a hand, and cautiously takes a step forward.

“Don’t hurt me,” Mycroft pleads, his voice now much quieter, full of tears again. His vision swims and Lestrade’s face blurs. “Please, I can’t take it anymore. Please, I’ll be good… I can’t tell you anything, but I’ll be good. Please…”

“Mycroft, it’s me. It’s Greg. I’m not here to… god, I’m not here to hurt you. I would never hurt you. Why would you think that?”

Mycroft shakes his head. He wants to avert his eyes, but he needs to see every movement so he can react. The corner had seemed like a good idea, but now he is trapped. Cold sweat has started to accumulate on his skin.

“Gregory?” he whispers.

“Yes. Only me. I’m alone. There’s no one here but me and you.”

“Where… the footsteps. I heard them.”

“Only me.”

With a start Mycroft realises where he is, what he is doing, and who is sitting on the floor in front of him. His head clears so suddenly it almost hurts. He looks down his body, then up towards Lestrade. His face colours red, and he doesn’t know if it’s shame or anger.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he manages to say, but it doesn’t quite have the same ring to it as his usual tone of voice. “I don’t know what came over me…”

Lestrade clears his throat. “It’s fine. Nothing happened. Shall I help you to get out of there?”

Mycroft thinks about this for a second. The corner hides his worn-out face in the shadow, the blanket hides his dirty body. He’s an utter disgrace that shouldn’t be in the eye of any human. Then he looks up to see Lestrade’s extended hand, warm and inviting. The mere sight of it makes him want to break out into tears again. Cautiously he reaches out, is grateful when Lestrade doesn’t reach for him in turn, but lets him cross the distance on his own. But instead of pulling him to his feet, Lestrade merely draws him out of the shadows. His eyes widen as they take in Mycroft’s state, shocked enough that Mycroft wants to withdraw again, but the hand holds him tight.

“Want to talk about it?” Lestrade asks finally.

“No.”

“Okay. Want to sit for a bit?”

Mycroft mulls this over. “Yes.”

“Okay.”

Lestrade lets go of Mycroft’s hand and turns so that he leans against the wall next to him. Mycroft mirrors his position so they sit next to each other, shoulders almost touching. He stares ahead.

“I’m sorry I surprised you.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about, inspector.”

“Please, call me Greg.”

“As you wish, Gregory.” Mycroft is too tired to argue.

In the silence, the sunbeams wander lower into the room, until they touch Mycroft’s toes on his outstretched legs. Gregory’s are similarly extended, but shorter, and not illuminated yet. He watches his bare feet light up slowly in the light that gradually turns from gold to white. His breathing slows down and his muscles relax for the first time in days.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “For… not asking.”

Gregory hums his response. “It’s not my place.”

“Oh, Gregory,” Mycroft releases in a shaky breath, but that’s all he’s managing at that moment. 

He feels Gregory’s eyes on him, taking in his shameful state. There’s nothing he’d like more than to hide himself, but the damage has been done. He waits until the inspector has seen all of him - the clothes he’s been wearing for four days, just trousers, a shirt, a half-undone waistcoat. He had lost his shoes when he heard his own steps on the wooden floor outside his bedroom, then his socks when he felt himself slip on the polished surface. Always be prepared to run. One of the earliest rules he’s taken to heart from his days as an agent. A sharp pain flares up in his chest as his thoughts settle on the fact that he’s still conditioned from back then, even though it’s been so long ago.

Mycroft can also feel the aura of concern that Gregory radiates. He’s turned towards Mycroft as far as he dares without intruding in his space, now looking at his bare feet in the sunshine, next to his own, which are now also touched by the sun.

Gregory gently taps the floor to get Mycroft’s attention before he speaks.

“When’s the last time you slept?”

“I don’t remember,” Mycroft admits.

Gregory seems to process this for a while. “I’ve locked the door behind me. I trust your security system is still in place?”

Mycroft nods.

“Your bathroom has only the one door?”

Mycroft nods again.

“If you want to clean up, I can stay out here. No one will be able to slip past me.”

There’s no one else here, Mycroft wants to say. Why don’t you tell me that? We both know it. Why do you have to pretend…

He turns towards Gregory, and their eyes meet. He sees the gentle smile directed at him and feels his chest tighten in response. He instantly knows why Sherlock has sent the inspector. It’s clearly written in every subtle expression on Gregory’s face. The realisation hits him and pushes any complaint out of his head. He can only nod.

“That is… most kind,” he says, voice cracked. The tears won’t stop. Gregory doesn’t admonish them.

A few minutes later he’s managed to rise to his feet without Gregory’s help. He still feels raw and doesn’t want anyone to touch him, though the inspector’s presence is incredibly soothing. As policeman, it’s his duty to protect, Mycroft thinks. But it’s not only that. He’s a natural caregiver, a steady rock to hang on. Every single one of Gregory’s motions is careful, slow, designed to calm rather than to agitate. Mycroft can’t express how much these simple considerations affect him.

He thanks Gregory in quiet tones and slips away into the bathroom. He doesn’t lock the door behind him, but has watched the other secure the bedroom door in turn, before he felt safe enough to risk a short break in the bathroom. He’s picked trainer bottoms and a cotton shirt from his wardrobe to change into, the soft fabric calling to him as his hand brushed against it.

It quite simple, really. Undress, shower, dress. But every single one of these actions still make Mycroft feel deeply uncomfortable. Undressing makes him feel vulnerable. The water masks all sounds he needs to listen for. Then his thoughts drift to Gregory, outside the door. He’ll listen to the footsteps for him, Mycroft’s sure. So he finally unbuttons the rest of his waistcoat and then his shirt. The air on this side of the house is always cool, so his skin breaks out into goosebumps as it comes in contact with it. As he loosens his belt, he releases a breath of relief. The leather had dug into his flesh, leaving deep imprints in his skin. He massages the area with concern, absentmindedly slipping out of his underwear.

The shower is heavenly. Warm and welcoming. He lets his head hang under the spray, blocking out the world in the knowledge that Gregory is there to look out for him. He stays under the water for a very long time, until he hears a knock on the door.

“Mycroft? Are you still okay?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Don’t rush. Just wanted to check.”

Mycroft turns off the water regardless. He feels new, but also dreadfully exposed, so he towels himself dry in record time and slips into his chosen clothes. He looks into the mirror over the sink. I look like shit, he thinks. Still, he combs his hair and brushes his teeth. All actions that tie him to the bathroom for a while, but it’s fine. Gregory’s still there.

When he finally emerges, he finds Gregory sitting on the bed, from where he has an eye on both doors. He feels almost shy now, unsure of what to do. What is the protocol here? Is there one? He thinks he may owe the inspector an explanation, after everything that happened. He’s never told anyone, but maybe if he does… Gregory will stay longer. The mere thought of the man leaving makes Mycroft fall into a deep void.

They don’t exchange any words as Mycroft walks over and gingerly sits down on the edge of the bed, next to Gregory. Then, after a few seconds, he scoots back and sits cross-legged on the mattress. The other mirrors his actions, until they sit, facing each other. Mycroft takes a look around the room, notes that the doors and windows are still closed, listens to any noise, but there is none. No footsteps. The corner with the blanket is behind him. He’s ashamed of it, hopes his body blocks Gregory’s view.

“I think I owe you an explanation,” Mycroft starts.

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Your leg may beg to differ.”

“I’ve already forgotten about that.”

Mycroft takes a deep breath. “Regardless, I’d like to explain.”

Gregory nods.

“I was trained to be a field operative. I was active until I was 28. An… incident forced me to stop. I was unable to muster the courage to return to missions afterwards, and was transferred into intelligence work. An office job. I made sure to work hard, maybe as compensation, but I wanted to be useful still. Make myself indispensable, so that they would never send me out into the field again.”

Mycroft looked up, but Gregory was merely listening. He was grateful for his silence.

“The incident… I haven’t told anyone. No one outside my immediate team at MI6 back then knows the details. I was captured. They wanted information that they thought I could give. It didn’t matter if I could, but would’ve never done so. But they didn’t give up…” Mycroft has to look down, his head heavy, shoulders hunched. “They left me in a dirty cell with no furniture for over a week. It was cold and wet. Every day they robbed me of another piece of clothing…”

He has to stop talking - the memory alone too much too bear. When he continues, his voice is full of tears.

“It was torture. Torture, plain and simple. You’re trained to withstand some of it, the physical aspects. But the psychological impact is much worse. They left me in the dark. Every time I heard the heavy footsteps outside the door I knew someone was coming to beat me. To ask the same questions that I couldn’t… wouldn’t answer.”

Mycroft reaches for his shirt and draws it up, exposing the scar tissue on his chest. He still can’t meet Gregory’s eyes.

“I look like this all over. It’s disgusting. I can’t wear anything but long sleeved shirts… the suits, they cover my past. They left their marks everywhere. I can’t show them, because someone will inevitably ask. And I can’t tell anyone,” he whispers. “It took my team almost two weeks to find me. I spent a month in hospital until my bones mended. I think the rest never has.”

He clears his throat, lowers the shirt again.

“Sherlock is out there right now, dismantling Moriarty’s network. I’ve taken to aid him here, in London, while he is traveling the world. I found traitors in our own ranks and had them removed. But I hadn’t found all of them. Last week they captured me when I left my office. Another inside man. MI5 found me not three hours later. The kidnappers barely had time to bring me to their hideout. But…”

Gregory reaches out and places a hand over Mycroft’s, which had been placed useless on his knee. Mycroft’s breath hitches.

“You’re not responsible for your involuntary reactions,” Gregory says. “But you could’ve reached out for help.”

“Help? With what?” Mycroft spits, but he doesn’t pull back his hand. “With this mess of a person? With someone who breaks down at the mere thought of… of…”

Then Gregory’s arms are around him and Mycroft breaks down, finally and completely. He grabs the other’s shirt tightly and cries, sobs, screams. He feels everything so keenly. The anger at himself, the deep-seated fear, the terror of the previous nights, but most of all the shame for being like this. For not being able to stop himself from holding on to Gregory as if he was his last connection to life, staining his shirt with these shameful tears.

Gregory whispers soothing nonsense to him as he cradles Mycroft in his arms. It doesn’t matter what he says, but he never stops his gentle monologue, stroking his hair like a child. When Mycroft comes to his senses again, as his body stops shaking, he finds himself on Gregory’s lap, chests pressed against each other, his head on the other’s shoulder. Their arms are wrapped around the other, holding on tight. He doesn’t want to let go, but his body tenses all the same.

“You don’t have to move if you don’t want to,” Gregory murmurs into the cotton fabric of his shirt. “In fact I don’t want you to.”

“But--”

“Shhh, it’s fine. Really. It’s all fine.”

Gregory slips a finger under Mycroft’s shirt, cautiously placing it on his skin. He seems to be asking permission, and Mycroft nods against him. Gregory’s hand is warm and slightly rough on his skin, but not rougher than the scars on his back. He strokes Mycroft’s skin carefully, as if the scars aren’t even there, instilling a sense of peace into him with every careful motion. Mycroft melts into him, letting himself go. In that moment he overbalances and Gregory falls back, taking Mycroft with him. He catches himself at the last second, hands on the mattress next to Gregory’s head, staring down at him. Their eyes meet at last.

It’s still there. That love he’s seen earlier. He can’t find any pity in Gregory’s gaze, no judgement. He didn’t know that was possible. Everyone always judges him, even the members of his own family.

“Mycroft?” Gregory asks, and his voice is incredibly shy, as Mycroft simply stares at him.

“Why are you here?” Mycroft asks in return.

“Sherlock sent me a message, and--”

“I know that. But why are you here?”

“I was afraid. For you. I couldn’t bear to live in a world without you.”

Now it’s Gregory’s eyes that shine with unshed tears. Mycroft doesn’t know how to react. Everything in him shuts down. There’s only Gregory underneath him. It’s all he can see and feel. Without thinking he lowers his head and presses his lips to Gregory’s. It’s fleeting, more a suggestion than an actual kiss and he draws back immediately, bolting upwards.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry, I--”

“Mycroft,” Gregory cuts him off. “Don’t apologise.”

“But…” 

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for years. Granted, this isn’t how I imagined it, but… Hell, I don’t even know. To be honest, I feel like I’m taking advantage of you in the worst way right now. If you want me to leave--”

“No!” Mycroft says with emphasis, then catches himself. “I… I can’t be alone in this house any longer. I think I’m going crazy.”

Gregory draws Mycroft down to lie beside him and wraps his arms around the most powerful man in Britain, who’s pressing his face into Gregory’s shoulder. Mycroft knows he should feel ashamed. But right now, he only feels Gregory’s body against him, breathes in the smell of his fabric softener.

“You need to sleep, love,” Gregory murmurs and Mycroft’s heart almost stops as he registers the gentle endearment. “Everything will be better when you’re rested. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Promise?” Mycroft asks.

“Promise,” Gregory confirms.

As the warmth and his exhaustion pull him under in equal parts, Mycroft feels Gregory place a kiss on his head and registers a secret whisper, that he probably wasn’t supposed to hear.

“I love you, you bastard. If you let me, I’ll always be here.”


	2. Chapter 2

Instead of waking with a start, Mycroft gradually moves from sleep into consciousness. Everything around him is warm and soft, pulling him back under, but for the first time in days he feels properly rested, so he doesn’t slip back into the arms of Morpheus. 

He blinks into the low light that fills his bedroom. The rays of the sun illuminate the wall above him, as they do every morning, though usually he isn’t there to see it, as he is already on his way to work by then. Only in summer does the sun rise with him for a few weeks. He relishes this time, because during the rest of the year he has to live in what seems like perpetual darkness.

Right now, though, his thoughts are as far away from work as possible. As consciousness manifests itself in his head, the happenings of the last days pop back one by one. But rather than sending him right back into a state of anxiousness, he can finally adopt the objective view, observing his behaviour from distance. It’s as if his mind has shifted from the emotional body back to the rational, and with that realisation he releases a deep and content sigh. He doesn’t feel alright, not yet, but he has regained a shred of control over himself, which is a milestone he can latch on to.

Just then, he feels movement behind him. The bed shifts slightly and suddenly there is an arm slung over him and a warm body pressing into his from behind. A nose sleepily nuzzles the skin behind his ear before the body goes somehow slack - probably back to sleep.

Mycroft is very still while everything happens, lying motionless on his left side. The simple feeling of having someone in bed with him is so alien, so remote, that he needs to process it before he relaxes - because with the processing he remembers just who is behind him, and how he’d come to be there.

Gregory.

Mycroft reaches for Gregory’s hand with his left one, intertwines their fingers slowly. As their palms touch, the other squeezes his fingers briefly and slings his right leg over Mycroft’s as well. All of Gregory’s warmth seems to seep into Mycroft’s body.

“Good morning,” Gregory mumbles into Mycroft’s hair, his voice still rough, and Mycroft has to grin - not only because it tickles slightly.

“Morning?” Mycroft has to ask. “Wasn’t it morning when you… Don’t tell me…”

“You slept for almost a day, love.”

Mycroft’s ears turn slightly pink at the endearment that Gregory has apparently chosen to address him with and squeezes his fingers in turn. He feels Gregory smile against the skin of his neck.

“I seem to have needed it,” Mycroft says. “It… It’s kind of you to keep me company.”

“Haven’t left your side. Couldn’t bear to think what you’d feel like if you woke up alone.”

Mycroft’s heart clenches. He doesn’t know what to say, so he turns around and faces Gregory instead. As their eyes meet, he almost forgets to breathe. In the morning light, features soft from sleep, with creases from the pillow on his cheek, hair standing up in all directions, Gregory looks so gentle and inviting, it shouldn’t be possible. Then the inspector draws a breath.

“I hope I haven’t overstepped my bounds… I mean, you kinda fell asleep in my arms, but still… you weren’t at your best yesterday. If you want to overthink this, I’m… well, I’m not happy to leave, but still… shit, I’m rambling. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. You don’t know how much your presence means to me. You can never even begin to imagine,” Mycroft whispers, almost inaudible, as loud as he dares to express the truth from his heart. “You caught me on the brink of… oh god…”

Tears form in his eyes, but they’re tears of relief, of letting go. Gregory draws him closer and lets him calm down in his own time, hands back on his body, one steadying between his shoulder blade, the other brushing gently through his hair.

“I’m so sorry,” Mycroft mumbles, finally. “I’m a mess.”

“You’re allowed to be a mess, love.”

Mycroft gathers all of his remaining courage and draws back, so he can look into Gregory’s eyes. “Did you mean it? What you said yesterday?”

“What are you talking about?”

“That you’ll always be there?”

It’s Gregory’s time to stumble mentally, as he’s working through the implications of what Mycroft has just said. It’s obvious on his face, but if anything, the shock makes him look even more endearing.

“You heard that? What else did you... E… everything?”

Mycroft can only nod.

“I… I, yes. Shit. Of course. I meant it. All of it,” Gregory says and swallows. “Yes, I love you. I’m sorry it took me so long to say it. I’m sorry it took me so long to be there.”

“You’re here now,” Mycroft says, and there’s no judgement in his voice.

He leans forward until their lips meet. The first brush feels electric, unreal. The skin on his lips tingles as they kiss slowly, pressing their bodies closer, breath mingling, sharing the warmth. Mycroft relaxes into the feeling, which is the very opposite of everything he has been through during those last days. It’s gentle, warm, happy and safe. He can get lost in it without fearing for his life, can turn off his thoughts without keeping one eye open to watch for threats. 

With every passing second he sinks deeper and deeper into the safety Gregory provides - has so generously offered him. Mycroft realises that he does indeed feel safe, right here, in the very room where he had lived through crippling panic attacks. With every sigh a bad memory is sealed away, with every caress of Gregory’s fingers, the shadows retreat further.

It’s no surprise then, that when Gregory slips his tongue into Mycroft’s mouth, the other doesn’t protest, but eagerly mirrors the gesture. The inspector’s lips are soft, but his stubble is slightly rough against Mycroft’s face. His hands grab onto Gregory’s shirt and pull him closer, and their bodies rub against each other. As he comes into contact with Gregory’s obvious sign of arousal, a low moan escapes Mycroft and he breaks the kiss to come up for air. He rubs himself against the other man, which is welcomed with a groan of approval.

“Mycroft?” Gregory asks and leans in, pulls the shirt away slightly and applies his lips to Mycroft’s neck, rutting slowly against him in turn.

“Ye… yes?” Mycroft barely manages to breathe as Gregory sucks on his skin.

“Please tell me I’m not moving to fast. I--”

“Nonsense,” Mycroft says, reaches for Gregory’s hand and presses it against his trapped cock, which jumps in response. “I need this. I need you. I want to enjoy this, please…”

“Oh, Mycroft,” Gregory’s breathes and he licks along the other’s pale neck until he reaches Mycroft’s ear. “Of course you can. Then allow me the honour. Let me take care of you.”

Mycroft can only nod, his throat suddenly thick with emotion. Without ceremony, Gregory slides his hand under Mycroft’s clothes, directly into his underwear. As his fingers come into contact with Mycroft’s cock, and they curl around it, Mycroft gasps almost surprised and digs his own fingers into Gregory’s back. He whimpers as Gregory doesn’t move his hand, but simply holds him for a while, and he feels himself jump in the steady grasp, twitching excitedly. The pressure feels heavenly, but not enough. He moves his hips once, and hears Gregory chuckle.

“I want to make you come. Oh god, I want to make you come so badly. I want to feel you moving under me. I’ve wanted you for so long…”

“I swear to god, if you don‘t start moving right now, I‘ll have you transferred to the Orkneys.”

“I heard they‘re quite nice this time of year.”

“Gregory!”

The other just laughs and Mycroft feels himself being pulled along for the ride. The joyful feeling that bubbles up in his chest makes him feel almost more overwhelmed than his arousal, but then Gregory moves his hand and every laugh is stifled as he gasps so loud it’s almost a shout.

With one hand Gregory pulls down Mycroft’s clothes until he’s naked from the waist down and makes him turn around, so that he’s pressed into his back again. He reaches around and grasps Mycroft’s erection, pressing his own into the other‘s backside in the process - and if that doesn’t conjure up a pretty picture in Mycroft‘s head. But he can’t concentrate on it for long as Gregory moves his hand - not slow and teasing, but relentless.

Mycroft slams from zero into hundred in an instant, body tensing for a few seconds from the shock as pleasure floods his whole system like a drug. Within seconds he pants into the blanket, while Greg breathes heavily into his shoulder. It’s too much… too soon… He can’t think. It’s perfect.

“God, Mycroft. You feel amazing…”

Mycroft shivers as Gregory breathes his words directly into his ear. His free hand wanders up to Mycroft’s hair and grips it, pulls the head back. Instead of inducing a complaint, the action makes Mycroft moan in surprised pleasure as his hair is held securely in Gregory’s grasp. He willingly gives himself over into the arms of the man who has single-handedly pulled him from the darkness, relishing in the way he can himself let go completely. Gregory almost growls as he feels Mycroft’s easy submission.

“I can’t wait to fuck you,” he whispers into Mycroft’s ear, as if it’s a secret just between them, presses himself closer to emphasise his words. Mycroft keens at the mere thought and writhes in Gregory’s hands. “But for now I need to feel you come. I need it more than anything. Are you… are you close?”

Mycroft can barely nod, his mouth open and panting, continuous moans escaping him as Gregory pushes him higher and higher… And in the end, it doesn’t take much more than that. Mycroft felt raw to begin with, and so open, now that Gregory had welcomed him into a safe haven, and he desperately wants to give the man everything he wants.

For all his moans and gasps, Mycroft is almost silent as he comes, body tensing, only a suppressed, strangled groan as evidence. Gregory strokes him through it, murmuring encouragements and endearments as Mycroft slowly comes down.

“I made a mess of the blanket…” Mycroft sighs after they caught their breath.

“We should get up anyway,” Gregory says and presses a kiss to Mycroft’s neck. “Get some food into you. I bet you haven’t eaten in days.”

Mycroft blushes shyly and doesn’t answer. Then their bodies brush and he realises that Gregory’s still hard. He turns around and looks at the other questioningly.

“It’s fine, love. You’ve already given me all I need.”

“But surely--”

“I don’t want you to feel in any way obligated… You wouldn’t believe how much I enjoyed myself just now, feeling you. You’re absolutely amazing.”

Mycroft sighs softly as he watches Gregory smile at him with glowing satisfaction. How had he never seen the way the inspector looks at him? How had he missed the obvious love in his eyes? How many other things had he missed?

“Come on, let’s find some breakfast.”

Mycroft concedes and reaches for his underwear, slipping it back on. As he lets himself be pulled to his feet and into Gregory’s arms he feels at peace, and even the footsteps in the corridor don’t manage to throw him back into the darkness. And while he isn’t sure if he’s actually in love with the inspector in that very moment, he can feels himself falling, slowly but surely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't resist....


End file.
